Case in point:  Friday, when the boys I work with found out it was my birthday, Mexican food and margaritas immediately became involved.  They sang stupid Rascal Flatts songs with me in my car and I didn’t have to pay a cent for lunch.  They made me laugh.  They hugged me like crazy.  They totally made my day.

I came home to a dinner invitation and my choice of any restaurant in town.  I exclaimed, “CHEESY BISCUITS!” and an hour later we were holding hands on the way to our table at Red Lobster.  I wasn’t even hungry, but any chance to see that boy dressed up in a cozy high collared sweater and talk silly and kiss in the parking lot, I’ll take.  So we ate our cheesy biscuits (“They’re cheddar biscuits, Courtney.” – “Cheddar is cheese! Shut up!”) and nearly closed the place down, leaving only because we were both ready to fall the heck asleep.

I stumbled home and talked on the phone for awhile with a few people it’s been much too long since I talked to.  I fell asleep.  I woke up the next morning and shuffled my tired feet into the kitchen to discover a cake in the fridge with a Happy Birthday note from my roommate and my best friend.  They baked me a cake!  And it’s frickin’ delicious.

I’ve been out shopping and crafting and running because it’s beautiful outside and hanging stuff on the walls and talking to my grandparents on the phone and cooking with my brand new pots and pans and finally feeling, a year later, like I live here.  The job is good for me.  The music is still happening.  It’s lent and I’m going to church and enjoying the sunshine and I’m always busy, never bored.  I have so many amazing friends here and everywhere and I hardly believe it sometimes.

Plus, um, I forgot to mention earlier this week (mostly I was just too busy to even look at my computer) but The Epiphany Moment went live on Tuesday! And that’s one of those things that I have considered myself so crazy lucky to be a part of from the get-go, so yeah, like I said, I have an awesome life.   And really, I think you should check it out, mostly because it’s plain old incredible, but if you need more motivation than that, you’ve got two free mp3 downloads by YOURS TRULY just sitting over on that page waiting to be listened too.

If I could whistle in writing, I would, but I can’t, so you’re just gonna have to go listen for yourself.

Doot doot doooooo.

Happy Sunday.

And that’s not a complaint so much as an observation.  I don’t hate it.  It tires me out, but I don’t hate it.  Mostly, I love it.  I love the stability and the routine of it.  I love the options I’ve got now.  I love the freedom.  I love that I haven’t had a moment in two weeks to be bored.

Being in Nashville, I work with a lot of other musicians.  I never expected anything different.  If you’re a musician and you decide to move to Nashville and you know no one, here’s my advice to you.  Get a job.  ANY job.  Because everybody knows somebody.  But this job has put me in the path of a few musicians who are actually doing decent side business in their spare time.  Beyond their wild and crazy 18 hours of overtime a week.  And part of me is looking at them wide eyed and awestruck, incredulously asking how on earth they do it.  The rest of me is seeing how possible it is to just love music, and live your life and simply make sure you never stop doing what you love to do.  You never know… the dream might pan out eventually.  But if you can’t love your job, you work and then you love the rest of your life.

Simple.

I had the honor of playing in a really great concert tonight… the kind of concert I grew up playing.  An auditorium, a list of performers, a microphone and a piano.  One song and then you get to enjoy the show.

This concert was held to benefit Haiti and the girl who put it on has got to be one of the most incredible on the planet.  We used to work together (see?) and she knew I was a singer, so she asked me to help out.  I wholeheartedly agreed.

But I’ve been working CRAZY hours this week, and on top of that, driving two hours a day to get to work and back.  I had paper work to take care of, sleep to get, and on top of that, it was someone’s birthday this week as well.  I was busy.  I didn’t have time to pick a song or rehearse until… um… last night.

So I spent most of Friday night and all this late morning and early afternoon memorizing words and practicing chord changes and basically making sure I wouldn’t A) make a fool of myself and b) let my friend down.  I spent my one day off this week (I’m going in for more over time on Sunday) sitting in front of a piano attempting to get it right.

But then when it all came down, I got it right.  I met some awesome people, I saw people I never expected to see, and I saw a truly amazing show.

This girl?  This wonderful girl who I used to work with?  Who put this entire thing together?

Well, she came out and sang very last.
And I’m pretty sure I cried like a baby.

It was a little pathetic.

But this is it, guys.

When you’re busy in the middle, you don’t have time to get apathetic about it.  You take every free moment and you work and you make it work and it pays off in so many ways you’d never imagine it could.

I really think I’ll have my dream job someday.  I’m not afraid to do it this way for awhile if that’s what it takes.
And it is.

So I’ll be tired and often incoherent and you might not hear from me as often as you used to.  But I’m here.  And I’m working.  And singing and writing and playing.

And loving it.

“YOU’RE PREGNANT!” he exclaimed.

I laughed.  “Funny, my mom made that same joke when I called to tell her I had something I’d better tell her before it went up on the blog.”

He thought that was great.  “But what’s your real news?”

So I told him, and his enthusiasm shone through strong and true for me.  He was excited for me.  And proud.

“But wait.  I need to backtrack here a bit.  … Did you say you blogged about this?”

I didn’t even hesitate. “Oh.  Honey.  Have I been blogging about you!“

It wasn’t my intention to spill myself all over my blog this time around.  It’s something I’ve done so much of in the past, and while some very artful posts have come from those experiences, some pathetic, whiny pieces of writing I wish I could make disappear have also resulted from those situations.  I didn’t want to look back at any of that and remember how I felt or have to berate myself for behaving the way I may have been behaving.

But I couldn’t help it.  Some days, it was all that was on my mind, all I could possibly write about… and I couldn’t abandon this place.
I did what I could to ensure I wouldn’t be embarrassed by myself later.

At one point, we had been talking on the phone when my blog came up, and he asked two things of me, should I decide to blog about him.  One, not to use any identifying information, and two, to be completely honest, no matter what.  He’s not a fan of having his life publicized or published in any way.  He’s very private.  You may never see a photo of him, even on my facebook profile.  We’re opposites like that.  But, he thought it may be enlightening, may offer insight, were he to ever read it… so he said to go for it.

I’ve honored both requests, and I’ve always written as though he may come in and read what I’ve written tomorrow or twenty years from now.  Not that I’ve ever had to hold back.

But it makes me wonder, after weeks apart, what he might think if he were to log on to CourtneyOlson.com and read what was going on during that time.  I believe we spent our time very differently.

But so much changed during that time.  So much changed on February 14th.  So much changed on Saturday, when after a simple question, he had me heading down winding country roads to meet him, to ride in that crazy old car of his, to admire the bright colors he painted the walls in that tiny, adorable house of his.  So much changed, all for the better, and when I finally left that night after discovering the surprisingly late hour, I realized that I may have never been as happy as I was that night, in so many of those moments.  I couldn’t choose one.

So many little things, little words, glances, actions.
So much is telling me to hope.
To believe.

I’m shopping at grocery stores where instead of having to dig through a stack of tomatoes to find the one with the fewest yellow spots and lumps, I can basically take my pick without much extra deliberation.  Not only that, but the guy restocking the avocados right next to me will refrain from rolling his eyes and instead will smile, ask how my night has been, and offer any assistance he may be able to offer.

I can get behind this.

Before, I was part of a vicious circle.  I wasn’t getting paid what my time was worth and therefore couldn’t afford to pay for much at all, much less what any of it was worth.  You go to Walmart and you can pay a dollar for something you’d most likely pay five for elsewhere.  Of course, part of you is thinking, “Yes! Look at all the money I’m saving!” or at very least, “Good, I’ll be able to eat AND pay my rent this month!” but soon enough you realize that the reason you’re not being paid enough is because other people aren’t paying enough for the products and services they purchase and it creates positions like the one you’re currently in.  Who’s paying that extra four dollars?  Probably that girl at the cash register who should be making at least that much more an hour.

This isn’t just about me.  It’s really not much about me at all.  I’ve had it good, I’ve been lucky, and I still consider myself incredibly lucky.  And blessed.  But there are people out there who have it much worse than I do and have a much smaller chance of pulling themselves out of that cycle.

I can only do what I can do.  I might now be a full time salaried employee, but I am by no means rich.  I’m still going to have to cut corners, buy store brands, make as few trips here and there as possible.  But I’ve got more flexibility now and I have to say, if I never have to look at another Walmart ever again, I’ll be happy.

Let’s break the cycle.

Have you seen the Story of Stuff?
Check it out.

It was magnificent.

I love Tennesse and I love that car.

And that boy?
Getting there.

I always start by saying that I grew up on country.  Because I did.  Reba McEntire, Martina McBride, Garth Brooks.  I follow by saying it’s not really “me” anymore.  I’m not really a fan of contemporary country.

First of all, as a songwriter and a singer and a musician in general who would like to make her living or at least supplement it significantly in the Nashville music industry, I’m not supposed to admit that.  At all.  Not out loud, not under my breath, certainly not in public, in writing.  But I can’t lie about who I am, and it’s true.  I’m not a big fan of contemporary country.

That said, it must be understood that this statement is a huge generalization, as I still buy current country music (Reba, Brad Paisley, Sugarland, Miranda Lambert, all great, recent examples) and every single one of my radios is tuned to a country station.  In some cases, it’s like a bad habit I just can’t seem to give up.  In others, it’s true infatuation, maybe even love.  And one of my life goals is to have Carrie Underwood record one of my songs.  I wrote “Better Not Settle” with Carrie’s voice in my head.  It’s not that I’m anti-country music.  It’s just that as a whole, I can’t see myself, as an artist, fitting in there.

But people seem to get stuck here.  They don’t let me finish by saying there are some really great under-the-radar country acts that I adore and would love to be just like.   They either roll their eyes at me for being too elitist or agree with what they think I’m saying wholeheartedly by exclaiming, “I know what you mean!  It’s not even country!“

This just doesn’t sit well with me.  “George Jones was country.  Johnny Cash was country.  Loretta Lynn, Patsy Cline, Dolly Parton.  They were country.  This stuff they’re playing on the radio today?  Not so much.”

But then they’ll say something like, “I loved ’90s country though.”

You know what? ME TOO.  Loved 90s country.  That’s what I grew up with.  But it was all marketing and madness then, just like it is today.  Why do you there’s a term called “Hat Act?”  They put guys in hats on the cover of the albums so they’d sell, forget whether or not they actually knew how to ride a horse or a bull.  These kids didn’t sound like Jones.  Or Cash.  Or Loretta or Patsy or Dolly.  The music had evolved to reflect its time and culture and technological advances and the current marketing expertise.  It happened in the seventies.  In the eighties.  In the nineties.  It’s happening today.   So what’s so country about 90s country that’s different from current country?  God only knows.

I’m guessing there weren’t too many people who listened to the Beatles and thought, “You know what?  This isn’t rock and roll,” just because they didn’t sound like Elvis.  Nobody listens to Kings of Leon now and denies they’re rock because they don’t sound like the Beatles.

Music changes and evolves and labels are stupid anyway but we use them for the sake of keeping things as organized as possible.  Country radio is going to play whatever keeps the money rolling in, labels are going to release the music that keeps the money rolling in.  Some of that music will be good, some of it will be the result of fantastic marketing and nothing more.   Sometimes it’s frustrating, but it’s business.  And just because Lady Antebellum’s new single has a little more of the twang processed out than I personally feel is necessary doesn’t mean that this isn’t simply the next frontier for the genre.

I mean, I think everybody is over-using auto-tune these days, but that’s another discussion entirely.

So yes, I’d be giddy as a schoolgirl if I got to hear a song I wrote coming out of my radio speakers someday, because I’m not really concerned with what we’re calling it.  I just know that if I’m going to sing that’s probably not where I belong.

I’m not sure I made my point, but I’ll just ask… what do you think?

And… that’s really all I’m going to say for now, maybe ever, because I like the idea of a steady paycheck and I’d not like to mess with that.

So since I’m a bit distracted, a found a video on my computer that I’ve never uploaded or posted.  It’s more than a year old.  How do I know?  That bedroom is in my parents’ house, and the walls are still yellow.  Fun times.

This was my attempt at a depressing country drinkin’ song.  What do you think?  Is it a success?  Or should I keep my day job?

Ha. I crack myself up.

The way I nearly starved myself because I felt like talking to no one.  At all.  And the thought of having to say even Hello to my roommate stressed me the eff out. So, I hid in my room with a bag of Valentine’s Day candy and a pillow.

I spent a few hours looking up DIY wall projects for our living room and trying to decide how to work with the nasty green color the walls are covered in.  I like green, really, but this particular shade just makes me want to cross my eyes.

I spent some time with my google reader.

I sent a Happy Valentine’s Day text message to someone I probably shouldn’t have sent a text message to at all.

I laid in bed.

I laid in bed some more.

I continued to lay in bed.

I called my brother to talk for about two minutes, and then I continued to lay in bed.

Awake.

Maybe I cried a little.  Maybe.

I ate a fun sized bag of skittles and I laid in bed some more.

I thought about going out to get coffee, but couldn’t bear the thought of wandering eyes judging my lonesome, makeupless face on this, the Day Of Love.

I looked at the clock.  I scrolled through the menu options on my phone.  Through old text messages.  Through my contact list.

I stared at his name.

I stared at his name.

I stared at his name.

I hit send.

…

No answer.  I left about four different voice messages before I finally felt like I got one right.  Before I’d calmed down enough not to sound like a head case.  Like an emotional overload.

I said, “I miss talking to you.”

I hung up.

I finally decided I couldn’t take the hunger anymore, so I filled a bowl with spinach leaves and crumbled some crackers over them, smothered it all in ranch, and pulled up Hulu.

I curled up on the floor with a pillow and ate my “salad.”

I slept through Ghostbusters.

I picked up my phone just as the final credits were rolling.  8:30.  No missed calls.  No text messages.

I cuddled up with my pillow again, accepting, really, once and for all, that there would be no further communication between us.

Hunger seized me, so I started to get up and finally venture into the kitchen to find some real food.

My phone rang.

And an hour and a half later, he told me it would keep ringing.

This project has been an amazing journey.  I’d be lying to you if I said I had much to do with it at all.  I understand the power of music; that’s why I make it.  But this entire concept, from the very beginning of the idea to its full fruition, which you’ll be able to see Tuesday, March 2, has left me in awe of the mastermind behind it.  I’m honored and blessed to have been a part of something so unique and beautiful.

Thanks, Matt.

And now, for your viewing pleasure:

Stay tuned.

It won’t get worse.  It won’t get better.  It just sits in my chest, weighing me down.

Just the way, almost ten years ago after my first real heartbreak, I saw orange extension cords everywhere I went, now all I see are white company vans.  You notice them now, don’t you?  But you don’t think about them.  They’re a part of your every day.  The cable company.  The electric company.  A place that sells and installs carpets, another whose actual purpose is a little unclear.  They’re everywhere.  I see at least ten of them in one day.  Even the days I don’t leave the house, ten of them will drive down my street.  One parks just a few doors down from me every night.

I see all of these vans but none of them ever has that big red lettered logo I desperately wish to see.

This Valentine’s Day discussion happens every year.  A certain segment of the population will declare hatred for the holiday.  Some will claim indifference, others will brush it off as silly and manufactured.  A small number of people stand their ground and shout their love for Cupid’s day from the rooftops.  I don’t usually think much about it.  Maybe I am an indifference claimer.  Usually.

But not this year.

I don’t want to be told it’s manufactured and silly.  I don’t want to be told to make the best of it and do something cute for someone – anyone! – I love.  I don’t want to be reassured that someday, I will have my very own Valentine, for keeps.  I don’t want any of that.

I’ve spent all year wanting all kinds of things I couldn’t have and I’ve put on a brave, smiling face, and I’ve told you I was happy.  For the most part, I really, really was.  I know that want and need are not the same things.  I know what’s important.  But today, I know what I want, and I can’t have it, and I’m not going to pretend to be happy about it.  I’m not going to talk my way out of it with logic.  I’m not going to keep my chin up.  I won’t be any more unhappy today than I have been for the past month, but I’m certainly not going to act lighthearted and totally fine because the rest of the world would like to remind me that I just broke up with someone I really, really liked and thinks I should be sunshine and rainbows anyway.  Maybe I just sound bitter right now, but that’s just downright unfair.

I ache.  It hurts.  Don’t make me smile through it.  Not today.